Page 8 of Synced to Us

“Yes.”

Mason and I speak at the same time and I glare at him.

“It can’t hurt,” Mason says. “At the very least, she could offer you some advice—”

He’s interrupted by an incessant buzzing. My phone shimmies across the countertop and I grab it like a lifeline, despite the name flashing on the screen.

Mason sees it, too. He says somberly, “Think about it, Wyn. It could make the difference you need.”

I don’t respond, instead lifting the phone between us and pressing it to my ear. “Ma? Hey.” I turn my back on the happy couple and choose the darkened hallway. “How are you feeling?”

3

Dee

I nearly choke on my martini. “I’m sorry, you want me to what?”

“You only have to take a look,” McKenna says, sipping delicately on her virgin cosmopolitan. She wrinkles her nose. “Does this taste charred to you?”

Watching my friend balance her newly-formed ass cushions on a tiny metal barstool while drinking what’s basically fourteen dollar cranberry juice should be more distracting than her request, but it isn’t. I try, anyway. “Are you sure you want to drink that? I mean, I know it’s glorified fruit juice, but…” I scan the crowded bar. “Would anyone else figure that? Like the paparazzi?”

McKenna flips her hair back, exposing her throat, then takes a long, obvious gulp. “Let them come for me,” she says as she sets the drink down. “I’ve dealt with their shit plenty of times, and the people that matter—you, Mason, my family—know damn well I’m taking care of this baby in my body.”

“Okay.” But I take a tentative sip of my martini, unconvinced. It’s McKenna’s choice, though, and I’ll be her ride-or-die in whatever situation we fall in.

We’re at our usual spot, reserved for Monday happy hour. Our old selves used to be determined to make “Monday” and “happy” go together, and we were pros at it. We’d get hit on any time we found a vacant high-top and slid onto the stools. It became a game, since our nights were usually taken up by our alter egos and sex was more for profit than pleasure. Here, we were ourselves, just Dee and Mack, behaving like co-eds, flirting with college guys and when it got too hot and heavy, making excuses we had a big paper due the next day. We’d always been great at donning personalities—whatever our clients wanted—so this was easy, relaxed, and fun. Pressure didn’t exist, or the expectation to deliver. Ironically, we were our most authentic selves on Mondays before the rest of the week took over and we had to become whatever our clients wanted.

Maybe Mondays were happy after all.

“Does your pensive silence mean you’re thinking about it?” McKenna rubs her expanding belly. She attempts to lean back, remembers there’s no support, and does a little jerk forward.

“Should we move?” I ask, but answer my own question. “We should go to a booth.”

“Absolutely not. This is us. What we do. I’m not going fucking anywhere.”

My brows jump. “How’s the swear jar going?”

“This baby’s going to be rich on my smart mouth alone,” she mumbles, cupping her Cosmo like a warm drink and bringing it to her lips. “Every day, I think of something new to curse at. Including our new roomie.” She points to her stomach. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not referring to this one.”

The mention of Wyn—again—makes the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but I can’t tell if it’s in automatic recoil or the shiver of intrigue. I can never define myself around him, which is the most frustrating part. “That bad, huh?”

“I know you have misgivings about him, but he’s a good guy. If a little messy. And boy smelly—I already have one of those in the form of a husband.” She eyes her belly suspiciously. “Pretty sure this one is another. I don’t know how much more I can take, Dee. And Wyn refuses to help himself. It’s like he thinks time and music will bring back everything he’s lost.”

Empathy tugs at the corners of my lips, hopefully too subtle for McKenna to notice. I’ve been where Wyn is, but I learned long ago that trying to use hope as currency is a useless endeavor that usually leads to more heartache than success.

“Great. That’s exactly what I want in a client,” I say. “A man-child who refuses to help himself.” I bring the dirty martini to my lips, craving the savory burn. “Not like I have luxury yachts filled with those.”

“Shit, I’m doing a terrible job talking him up, aren’t I?” McKenna rubs her belly absent-mindedly. “Okay yes, part of me—that nesting part, the one where I want to build a family—needs him to move out, but Mason is so against it. He feels so much guilt, although he’ll fall on a sword before he ever admits it. He found success as a solo artist and became more than a bass player. And with Rex and Easton finding their paths, too, Mason refuses to leave Wyn behind. And I understand that. I do. But Wyn’s floundering, and there comes a point when we’re enabling him, not helping him, don’t you agree?”

McKenna pleads Wyn’s case with wide, sea green eyes. I hesitate, but stay resolute. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be if he just throws money at the wind and sees which direction it flies in. I don’t have time for that kind of irresponsibility.”

My conversation with Dennis flits through my mind. His threats and discoveries lodge themselves in my throat and expand their sharp-tipped wings. Of anyone, McKenna would understand. She did what I did, reinvented herself, and dealt with the type of exposure Dennis promises to exploit. Look at her now—she’s married to a famous rock star and having his baby. It can’t be that bad, can it?

Your lies sure can.

Reality creeps through my positive lens like a spiderweb of fractures against glass. McKenna dealt with harassment as an escort, nearly lost her life to a dangerous client, and did it all in the public eye. The tabloids were relentless with her, calling her the Pretty Woman understudy and shaming her choices, all the while applauding Mason and his heroic efforts at “saving” her from prostitution. No mention was made on how strong McKenna is or her resilient personality, despite her father’s lock-up and her careful, private future shattered by media exposure. There were no attempts at treating this woman like the survivor she is. Even now, gazes slide to our table with judgy eyebrow raises and murmurs from stiff upper lips. There’s likely been a photo or two taken of McKenna “drinking” while pregnant. Some nobody is about to get richer on lies—I can picture tomorrow’s tabloid headlines with sobering, astute clarity.

Do I want that kind of scrutiny? McKenna’s become numb to it, or is so secure in her relationship that she doesn’t let it affect her anymore, but what if they dig up dirt from my childhood? If Dennis exposes my college extracurricular, could I handle that kind of vitriol from clients I’ve developed a relationship with? Co-workers that used to respect me? Or a boss that will look at me like a side-piece and not the next portfolio manager?

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